


Keep Their Colours True

by pensversusswords



Series: The Stars Will Be Watching Us [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historically Inspired, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anxiety, F/F, Friendship, Guard Katsuki Yuuri, Knight Katsuki Yuuri, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Plot, Pre-Relationship, Prince Victor Nikiforov, Trigger warning on chapter 3, Yuuri POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensversusswords/pseuds/pensversusswords
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov, the Crown Prince of Pobeda, embodies everything Yuuri has heard about him; strikingly beautiful, kind, blessed with hair as silver as starlight that falls down to his waist, has a smile that could make the coldest heart tremble, and--most importantly--he is completely unattainable. Katsuki Yuuri is sworn to protect the Crown Prince with his skill, his dedication, and his life if necessary.The problem is that Viktor doesn't seem to be content with staying out of reach. He is stubbornly determined to find a place in Yuuri's life with his smile like sunshine, his infectious exuberance, his friendly disposition.Yuuri was just supposed to protect Viktor. He wasn't supposed to fall in love with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TEMPORARY HIATUS, BUT WILL RETURN!
> 
> Finally-- _finally_ \--it's here. I've been talking about tackling this behemoth of an AU for forever, and it's finally in progress! 
> 
> Some info on this AU:
> 
> 1\. Viktor and Yuuri are age swapped. Viktor is 19 and Yuuri is 22. As a result of this and their status/life situation in the AU, I've played around a bit with their characterizations and their dynamic.
> 
> 2\. This isn't technically a historical AU, but Pobeda (fictional country where they spend the majority of their time in this AU) is modelled after 16th-18th century Russia (mostly culturally and socially). It is inspired culturally by Russia, but I've taken MAJOR liberties with the historical, social and political sphere, so much so that I decided to make it a fantasy-esque royalty type AU rather than simply historical.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: non graphic violence (sword fighting) and a bit of blood. I personally don't find it overly graphic but if blood/injury bothers you, this chapter isn't for you.

 

 

 

_Here’s ivy!— take them, as I used to do_  
_Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.  
_ _Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,  
_ _And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine._

_~ elizabeth barrett browning, sonnets from the portuguese 44_

 

***

 

Yuuri has a tendency to find himself in _the wrong place at the right time_ moments more often than he would like to. Or vice versa, if the universe is feeling creative on that particular day. Sometimes, Yuuri thinks to himself that his life is made of chance moments, moving pieces that bump and collide and leave him in a shattered mess in its wake.

If he were to be truthful with himself, he would say that he doesn’t mind this so much. Thus far, he’s made the most of all the strange and subtle changes in his life. Even so, he just wishes the universe would give him time to prepare before he’s struck over the head by the unforgiving hand of fate.

The universe has no interest in doing any such thing on his behalf. He’s on his own.

With one hand pressed to his shoulder in a feeble attempt to staunch the flow of blood slipping between his fingers, realization passes over him in a fleeting thought: he wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.

It was his first night of freedom in several days, and instead of taking the opportunity to go out into the city for the many different forms of entertainment that could be found in the vicinity of the palace, Yuuri had decided to stay in the barracks, curled in his bed with a book of Pobedan history. His familiarity with the language had improved immensely in the year since his arrival to the royal city of Ledgrad to join the Zaschita in a very honorable position in the royal guard. Even with that improvement, he was also keen on becoming knowledgeable in the culture and history of the country as well. It was a slow process—he sometimes found himself reading a single sentence several times over, his brain slow to process the still unfamiliar symbols—but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

His commander was the one who burst through the door with hardly even a courteous knock, swinging the door open and striding in so suddenly that both Yuuri and his roommate—who had been reclined on his bed similarly to Yuuri with a pen in hand and an open book in his lap—both startled to their feet.

Yuuri stood there with hands folded behind him at the small of his back while Guang-Hong scrambled to get into the same position.

“Commander,” Yuuri said, tilting his head forward in a slight bow. Guang-Hong mimicked the movement and the formal address in his quiet voice.

Their commander, a tall and wide shouldered woman who wore her armour like a second skin and her hair tied back so tightly that it looked slicked back against her head, gave them both a sharp nod in response.

“Guards,” she acknowledged. “Katsuki, I apologize, but you are needed tonight. You’ll be patrolling the west wing. The guard who was supposed to be responsible for it tonight is currently in the infirmary with a sprained wrist. You’ll be covering for him.”

Her words were a command, not a request, but Yuuri couldn’t help but blink in surprise at her request. “The west wing?” That portion of the palace housed the royal chambers, so the patrol units responsible for that section were the more seasoned, trustworthy guards. Yuuri didn’t meet those qualifications. He was just one of the dime-a-dozen guards who were just enough above average that they qualified to do the guard equivalent of busy work.

“Yes,” she responded, unconcerned by Yuuri’s confusion. “Your shift begins in an hour. Do your best.”

She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, leaving behind the echoing thud of the door closing firmly behind her and a wide-eyed Yuuri staring in her wake.

Silence followed. Guang-Hong turned to Yuuri after a few long, drawn out moments. “You’ll do fine,” he said. His voice was laced with his usual earnestness. He was a kind man. Yuuri was grateful for his reassurance.  

Unfortunately, it didn’t do much to alleviate the nervousness that was growing claws in his belly. “Thank you, Guang-Hong,” Yuuri said quietly. Silently, he wished Guang-Hong’s words were enough.

Patrol wasn’t a hard job, per se, and the practice itself  was mostly a precaution, but Yuuri was well aware that there was a reason that the west wing was normally assigned to his fellow guards who had done more to prove themselves over the years. A night shift in the west wing, prowling the halls while the empress and her family were all asleep and vulnerable in their beds was undeniably a tremendous responsibility.

Yuuri knew that he wasn’t exactly hopeless—he knew he was a skilled fighter, skilled enough to be accepted into the palace guard, but he certainly wasn’t the best. He wasn’t _reliable_. Too many instances of him freezing up mid-fight proved that to his superiors.

Considering this, he figured this meant Commander Lachova was out of options, and all of her best were already occupied or unavailable, so she had no other choice but assign the shift to him.

The next hour passed slowly. Yuuri attempted to continue reading but that hardly lasted more than a few minutes—he could tell his mind wasn’t particularly adept at focusing at the moment, so he decided to give up. Unable to keep still, he dressed in his uniform and arranged his scabbard on his hip. When he said goodbye to Guang-Hong, he hoped that his voice didn’t shake.

He was glad when Guang-Hong didn’t question him for leaving early. He wouldn’t have wanted to explain. Besides, there was no harm in starting his shift early.

Patrol was, at best, a tedious and exceedingly dull task. One was expected to walk the length of the palace halls,  make sure nothing was out of order, and keep an eye out for any possible threats that might be lurking about. Yuuri could tell by the way most of the commanders talked about the particular task that it was mostly unnecessary. They felt it was a waste of resources, but the royal family was awfully particular about their safety, and none of the guards were in any position to question their preferences. Yuuri wasn’t inclined to think one way or the other, but there was no doubt that it was not the most exciting task.

Which was why when Yuuri was entering the second hour of his shift, he was startled by the sudden sound of a frightened yelp, followed by something clattering to the ground up around the next corner of the hall. A frown pulled his brows together as his hand instinctively hovered over the sword at his hip.

Then, there was the sound of weapons being drawn, and Yuuri leapt into action. His sword was scraping out of his scabbard and the hilt clenched in his hand in an instant and he took off at a run towards the sound of the scuffle.

When he rounded the corner, he came upon a scene of fight already underway. Three guards were easily recognizable by the deep midnight blue of their uniform jackets that matched the one that Yuuri was currently wearing. Two of the guards were engaged in a heated clash of swords with four figures dressed in tight black clothing and masks that covered the area around their eyes, leaving the rest of their faces exposed.

A quick assessment of the situation gave him a good idea of what he was dealing with. It was hard to discern much from their plain clothing, but considering their polished weaponry and the fact that they’d somehow managed to infiltrate the heavily guarded palace suggested that they were at least well paid mercenaries. They were able to hold their own against the guards, matching each strike with a skilled parry and making a few deadly swipes with their swords themselves. It was impressive in itself considering the guards’ high calibre of skill, so they were no amateurs.

His focus landed on the intruder standing closest to him. They were standing with their back to Yuuri. The fight was still raging on, but they were trapped on the outskirts of the skirmish, unable to engage as vigorously as the others.

With his target at the center of his eyesight and his heart pounding in his chest, Yuuri darted forward with his sword out and ready, and with a precise movement, he kicked the intruder in the sensitive spot behind their knee.

The intruder stumbled a little, their leg giving out beneath them, but Yuuri did not do the dishonorable thing and attack from behind. Instead, he waited until they turned to face him with their mouth pulled back in an ugly snarl to engage. It was good that Yuuri had his sword out and ready, because his opponent was on him in an instant, sword raised and clashing against Yuuri’s with enough force that he had to brace himself against the blow in order to stay upright.

It hadn’t escaped Yuuri’s notice when he approached that the intruder was much larger in both height and stature, and they were significantly muscled under their clothing. Their strikes against Yuuri were delivered with a practiced accuracy and strength that shook through Yuuri’s entire body, the force of it quaking in his bones.

It was good, then, that Yuuri was much faster than his opponent. Faster and more agile, he ducked out of the way of as many of their advances as he could, conserving energy while the intruder swung wildly, effectively wearing themselves out. Yuuri was patient. He evaded and only leapt forward to met out shallow cuts that sliced through his opponent’s clothing to reveal pale, blood reddened skin just beneath.

This only made his opponent angrier, which was dangerous, but it also made them sloppier, which was to Yuuri’s advantage. He waited for the right moment—after the intruder made a particularly powerful strike and was slow to bring his sword back up to parry—and lashed out with a precise, quick movement. His sword sank into the juncture of shoulder and arm, cut in deep. The attacker stumbled a bit as a furious, pained growl tore from their throat, and Yuuri steeled himself before twisting his sword a bit and wrenching downwards.

The attacker fell to their knees, sword falling to hit the floor with a clang. Yuuri had purposefully chosen to attack the side that they had been fighting with, rendering their sword arm completely useless to fight with.

“Bastard,” they spat in the rough syllables of Pobedan, one hand coming up to to clutch at their wound. Behind the mask, Yuuri could see their eyes burning with fury.

Yuuri didn’t pay it any mind. He dealt a blow with the heel of his foot that sent the intruder sprawling on their back and grabbed their discarded sword, throwing it unceremoniously down the hallway out of reach.

By the time the sword clattered against the ground, Yuuri had already stepped forward again and engaged another intruder. A quick scan of the fight showed him that one guard was injured—clutching a crimson stained hand to a wound on their side as they fought awkwardly with their other hand. He sees another intruder break away and lunge at the guard who was still standing in front of the hunched figure in the corner. Yuuri didn’t get a chance to see how that played out, for his new opponent lunged forward with a strong attack, effectively distracting him while the fighting raged on around him.

This one seemed to be just as strong as his previous opponent, but not nearly as skilled. Their attacks were vicious, but not precise. As a result, it took far less time for Yuuri to incapacitate this attacker. This time, he ducked down low and jabbed the tip of the sword into his opponent’s hip, eliciting a sharp cry of pain, followed by the dull thud of their body striking the floor.

Yuuri had been just about to kick his second opponent’s sword away when he was stopped by a sharp, hot pain blooming in his shoulder. It was the familiar sensation of a sharp blade being thrust into his skin and tearing through muscle. He let out a strangled cry as someone delivered a sharp kick to the back of his knee—just like he’d done to his first opponent earlier—and he fell to the ground. Fingers curled around his neck, bruising and constricting in their grip. Yuuri made a strangled sound of agony as the blade was pulled viciously from his shoulder.

“Zaschita _scum_ ,” the voice of Yuuri’s first opponent snarled in his ear. Yuuri tensed, holding himself as still as possible as he struggled for breath. His chest ached with the need for oxygen. “You’ll die here, just like—“

They weren’t able to finish their sentence. There was a sharp sound of something shattering, followed by the grip on his neck loosening and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.

Gasping, Yuuri choked on the air that was suddenly filling his lungs. Still on his knees, he turned to see his attacker laying in a pool of jagged shards that likely belonged to a vase, knocked out cold. A figure stood over him with outstretched hands, as if they didn’t know what to do with them after knocking the intruder unconscious. Yuuri recognized the figure as the one who had been hunched in the corner earlier.

He did not have time to dwell on them at the moment. Yuuri brought a shaking hand up to the wound on his shoulder, pressing down on the slickness of his uniform as he turned quickly to where the fight had been raging on moments before.

To his relief, the sight that met his eyes was a welcome one. All the remaining intruders lay still on the floor, their dark clothing stark against the pale stone floor. Yuuri tried not to look too closely at the crimson that pooled around them. Luckily, only one of the guards sat on the ground; the one Yuuri had noticed was injured earlier. He was propped up against the wall with his eyes closed, but appeared to be answering another guard crouched in front of him sluggishly.

Relieved, Yuuri allowed himself to slump against the wall beside him, trusting it to support the weight of his aching body.

This is where Yuuri finds himself; sitting in a hallway with agony coursing through his upper body as he clutches at his wounded shoulder, shock and confusion stirring inside him, and all he can think is that he wasn’t meant to be here tonight.  

Even so, the fact that this is where he finds himself makes all the difference in the world.

“Are you alright?”

Yuuri looks up at the sound of a soft, concerned voice, and a strangled sound finds its way out of his mouth. He stares up at the speaker with wide eyes, his mouth gaping open uselessly as he frantically tries to gather his thoughts.

The reality that he isn’t supposed to be here in this moment chokes him once again with more urgency than before, because surely, _surely,_ this moment doesn’t belong to him. It’s a stolen moment that he isn’t meant to be a part of. Yet, here he is. The cold stone floor is solid beneath him, and his wound is undeniably pulsing with pain, anchoring him here in the present, to this moment.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Yuuri had been wrong, and the universe does have some sort of interest in him. Nothing else could account for this moment, because standing over him, with his hair spilling over his shoulders like liquid moonlight and blue eyes bright with concern, reaching out to him with pale, slender fingers, is none other than his saviour, Prince Viktor Nikiforov.


	2. ii-iv

**ii**

 

It dawns on Yuuri that this is a moment that he needs to memorize and catalogue in his mind for safekeeping. 

If there had been any possible way Yuuri could mistake the beauty standing in front of him for anyone other than the Prince, the telltale silver hair that framed his delicate, pale features would have told him exactly who he was.

Yuuri sits there in dumbfounded silence, staring at the hand that is stretched out to him.

“Oh well, of course you’re not alright,” the Prince says now, dropping his hand, and maybe Yuuri is more injured than he’d thought and is delirious from the pain, because he thinks that the Prince almost sounds concerned. That’s not right. A prince shouldn’t be concerned about him. “You’re bleeding everywhere,  _ oh _ —”

It takes Yuuri about that long for his mind and body to fully catch up to the situation. 

“Y-your Highness!” Yuuri sputters. He lurches forward in an attempt to get to his feet, forgetting about his wound for a brief, stupid moment until a spark of pain reverberates through his shoulder. He lets out a groan and slumps back again.

“No, no!” Prince Nikiforov is saying, reaching out to Yuuri again. This time, he actually touches Yuuri with a steadying hand on his uninjured shoulder.

Instinctively, Yuuri flinches at the contact. The Prince seems to notice and drops his hand again. Yuuri curses himself inwardly; it had been instinctual. He had not meant to offend.

Before he’s able to apologize, the Prince is doing exactly that.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you more.” He frowns. He’s crouched in front of Yuuri, sitting back on his heels, watching Yuuri carefully in a way that makes Yuuri feel like he’s a spooked animal that needs to be calmed with slow movements and gentle words. 

“Ah, no! You didn’t hurt me,” Yuuri pants through gritted teeth. “Your Highness,” he tacks on hastily.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Prince Nikiforov notes quietly. “Here.”

The Prince reaches up to shrug out of his dressing gown; a simple, delicate slip of silk, embroidered with a delicate, intricate pattern around the hems. He takes it between his slender, pale hands and shakes it out before beginning to fold the fabric.

When Yuuri realizes what the Prince is doing, he stiffens in shocked dismay. “No!” Yuuri gasps. “The blood will ruin your clothes.” 

“That is the preferable option,” the Prince answers, sounding wholly unconcerned by Yuuri’s protest, still folding the dressing gown carefully. Yuuri watches in dismay as the silky fabric is transformed into a more compact wad of cloth. “Considering the other option is you bleeding out in front of me.” 

“I—”

“You saved me,” the Prince says simply. His wide, impossibly blue eyes meet Yuuri’s, his gaze completely focused on him. “Let me help you.”

Prince Nikiforov’s eyes are making it extremely hard to look away—how are they so expressive and sincere when they remind Yuuri of the crystal clarity of chipped ice?—but Yuuri manages to remind himself to avert his eyes. It wouldn’t do to offend the Prince by staring so obviously, even though Yuuri hadn’t been the one to initiate it. “It… it wasn’t just me,” he says. He fixes his focus his knees. Respectful. Less dangerous than looking the Prince in the face.

“If you hadn’t been there to leap in front of me when I was unarmed and defenseless, things would have been a lot worse,” Prince Nikiforov says quietly. “Thank you.”

Yuuri pulls a long, steadying breath of air into his lungs. “It was an honor, your Highness,” he says. 

He glances up then, just in time to see Viktor give him a small smile. Yuuri imagines that it is a dim version of the smile that normally graces his face—he thinks idly that the Prince’s face looks like the type that is meant to smile bright and unabashed—but even so, Yuuri admires his ability to manage even that small smile, given the grim circumstances. 

“Take this,” the Prince says insistently, holding the folded robe out to Yuuri. “Please.”

Yuuri is loath to be the man who refuses the generosity of a prince, especially when it’s been phrased as a command. “Yes, your Highness,” he relents and gingerly reaches out for the offering. “Thank you.”

Prince Nikiforov looks pleased by this. He settles back on his heels again and watches Yuuri intently as he shakily brings the cloth up to his throbbing shoulder. 

Yuuri presses his hand against his shoulder firmly and grits his teeth at the spark of white hot pain that flares up at the movement. The cloth becomes sticky-warm quickly as the blood begins to seep through; Yuuri doesn’t think it’s a terribly deep or dangerous wound, but the cloth is thin and he’s sure it will be soaked through in no time.

Despite his effort to mask his reaction to the pain, the Prince seems to notice him flinch. He leans forward with a little frown etched between his brows and one hand raised towards Yuuri. “Are you sure you are all right? I can hold the cloth there for you if that would help.”

Yuuri blanches at the offer. Accepting the cloth in the first place had already been too much, he can’t imagine allowing the Prince to bloody his hands for the sake of a nonfatal shoulder wound. He shakes his head, the movement sharp and frantic. “Y-your Highness, I assure you that won’t be necessary,” he says shakily. The Prince’s hand is still extended out to him in an offering, and Yuuri can feel himself physically shrinking away from the prospect of the Prince’s touch. “Please, don’t worry about me.”

The Prince’s hand drops, but his frown doesn’t. “You’re injured.”

“A little. It doesn’t hurt much,” Yuuri lies. His shoulder feels like it’s ablaze, every slight movement sending jolts of fiery agony flaring under his skin, but the Prince doesn’t need to know that. He just hopes he’s doing an adequate job of keeping the truth off of his face. 

Prince Nikiforov’s brow creases more and his expression is skeptical, but he doesn’t dispute Yuuri’s claim. “I must go speak with the other guards,” he says instead. “Keep pressing down on the wound.”

With that, he stands, pushing himself to his feet with a kind of guileless and elegant grace that suits him. He gives Yuuri one last long, searching look before turning and going over to the other two guards, who bow deeply when he approaches. They speak in hushed voices, too low for Yuuri to hear. He lets his eyes droop closed for a few brief moments, trying to focus on anything but the pain.

The Prince doesn’t speak to him again after that. He spends the next few minutes talking in low voices with the other guards, one of which he sends off, likely to fetch one of the Zaschita commanders, someone who is authorized to deal with this mess. 

Yuuri finds himself escorted away on a stretcher—not necessary, he insists, but he’s told that the Prince commanded it himself, so Yuuri begrudgingly accepts it with no further protest—and taken to the infirmary.

The last thing thing he sees before he allows his eyes to close as he’s being carried away is Prince Nikiforov looking over from where he’s standing speaking with one of the captains who arrived on the scene, and lifting his hand in a little wave in Yuuri’s direction.

Yuuri can still see the small, tired smile that pulls at the corners of the Prince’s mouth when his eyes close.

 

**iii**

 

Instead of greeting Yuuri first with words like a normal person might, Phichit announces his presence by throwing himself onto the bed with a relieved cry. Yuuri, who had been just dozing off into a light sleep, is startled fully into wakefulness with a pained yelp.

“Oh, Yuuri, you’re all right!” Phichit’s exclamation is loud in Yuuri’s ear as he squeezes both of his arms firmly around Yuuri’s waist.

“I won’t be if you don’t stop crushing me,” Yuuri wheezes. His shoulder has improved a bit after being properly stitched and bandaged, but it still throbs with a dull agony constantly.

Phichit pulls away just enough to loosen his painful hold on Yuuri, but keeps his arms draped around Yuuri’s hips. Yuuri lets out a relieved groan.

“This is the man you sent for?” One of the orderly nurses speaks from the doorway. Yuuri awkwardly turns his neck to peer at the doorway—a difficult feat with Phichit clinging to him like a lifeline—to see her impatiently looking over the scene in front of her. Her gaze is uncaring and she looks like she has other things she’d rather be attending to. “He burst in looking for you, couldn’t really stop him.”

“Yes, this is him,” Yuuri replies over Phichit’s head. “Thank you.”

The nurse only grunts in response and turns, leaving him and Phichit on their own. 

Of course, Phichit’s next move is to swat at Yuuri’s uninjured shoulder. “You  _ scared _ me,” he scolds. His normally bright and cheerful face is creased in a worried frown. “Yuuri, how could you scare me like that? It took days for the message to get to me! What if you had died?”

“I didn’t do it to scare you,” Yuuri protests feebly, a weak defense against Phichit’s mini tirade. “I was just doing my job, Phichit. You know my job is dangerous.”

“I know,” Phichit sighs, not sounding at all impressed. He flops down to lay next to Yuuri with a huff, more carefully than the hug he’d given when he first came into the room, and throws one arm over Yuuri’s stomach. He drops his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder and huddles in close. “But you worried me.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri says sincerely. He pats Phichit’s hand gently and curves his body into his friend’s warmth. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Of course, silly. As if I wouldn’t.” Phichit yawns. “Even though the messenger woke me up before the crack of dawn. I wasn’t going to let you waste away in your plush, luxurious bed all by yourself. I had to come see the palace! Oh, and you of course.”

“You’re so kind,” Yuuri says wryly, but he can’t help a small smile. He knows Phichit is teasing. 

“I know, I’m truly a saint. Yuuri, I still can’t believe you live in a  _ palace,”  _ Phichit gushes, his voice infused with awe. His hair is tickling Yuuri’s neck, but Yuuri doesn’t have the heart to move him. Phichit is warm and solid against his side, and his proximity is a comfort. Having Phichit pressed against his side in the small bed makes him realize that he’s missed him over the past few days.

Yuuri lets out a small laugh. “I don’t actually live here, Phichit,” he reminds Phichit. “I live in the barracks.”

“Shh.” Phichit places a hand over Yuuri’s mouth, prompting Yuuri to roll his eyes and smile beneath his palm. “Don’t ruin this for me, Yuuri.”

Dutifully, Yuuri doesn’t protest. Instead, he apologetically says, “I sent for you as soon as it happened. They must have only sent a messenger this morning. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Phichit waves a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, it’s fine, as long as you’re okay now.”

Yuuri drops his head to rest on Phichit’s in silent acknowledgement. 

It’s not until then, in the comfortably quiet moment that follows that Yuuri finally finds the words to tell Phichit the most important thing that’s happened in the past few days.

“I met the Prince,” Yuuri whispers, like it’s a secret. The memory of bright, bright blue eyes and silver hair exists in a closed box in Yuuri’s mind, there for him to take out and examine carefully and marvel at its existence whenever he pleases. It feels like if he speaks the words too loudly it will slip through his fingers and dissipate, like it had never existed in the first place. “He thanked me for saving him. I… Phichit, he helped bandage my shoulder.”

“You  _ spoke  _ with him?” Phichit demands incredulously. He tips his head to stare at Yuuri with wide, accusatory eyes. “You talked to Prince Nikiforov and that wasn’t the  _ first thing  _ you told me?”

“I thought you were worried about me being injured!”

“I didn’t know you  _ met the Prince!” _

Yuuri laughs, a quiet rumble in his chest, and recounts the night in a low voice—from the moment he stepped in the palace to begin his shift, to the moment when he heard the sounds of the fight breaking out, and finally to when the prince was leaning down over him, his attention entirely on Yuuri and only Yuuri.

“He’s… He’s just as pretty as they say,” Yuuri finishes, swallowing thickly. “Prettier. He didn’t even seem real.”

Phichit breaks him out of the memory by poking his cheek. “You’re blushing,” he informs Yuuri, his voice light and awed, “and I can’t even tease you for it. I would blush too if I met a prince.”

“I’m not blushing,” Yuuri denies, even though he knows that he is. 

“You are,” Phichit says with absolute certainty. He lets out a wistful sigh. “I want to meet a prince. Yuuri, if I quit my job, do you think they’ll take me on as a guard? Apparently I’m in the wrong profession.”

Yuuri snorts. “You’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“I think I could fake it,” Phichit muses. “I’m a good actor, Yuuri, they would never suspect a thing.”

Yuuri huffs, which earns him a nudge in his side.

“Plus, you could teach me,” Phichit grins. “I have the best teacher in the world at my disposal.”

“Keep your job, Phichit, and your flattery,” Yuuri laughs. “I’ll probably never speak to him again in my life.”

Surely, such an experience only comes once in a lifetime. He doesn’t dare to expect more.  

 

**iv**

 

A few days later, Yuuri is permitted to move from the infirmary back to the barracks, for which he is grateful. 

He’d surprisingly missed the barracks while he was laying on his bed in the infirmary. They were good to him while he recovered, the beds were comfortable and the nurses were kind, but even so, the experience was unpleasant. 

He’d been grateful when they stopped giving him the foul tasting medicine that lingered in his mouth after he choked it down—it made him groggy and he slept most of the first few days of his best rest. After that, they’d stopped with the medicine (to Yuuri’s relief) and his treatment was reduced just to the salve they rubbed onto the wound a few times a day. The wound had healed enough by then for the numbing effect of the mixture to take away enough of the pain that Yuuri found himself desperately wanting to be up and about again.

He is under strict instructions not to so much as look at the training ring, which he supposes is reasonable but he is nonetheless unhappy with it. He isn't opposed to spending time quietly and resting or taking time to read or practice his Pobedan and keeping his mind sharp. He rather likes it, in fact. However, normally the time he spends quietly with a book in hand is interspersed with jaunts in the ring or a brisk run around the palace grounds. He's used to a balance of equal parts time spent in the library and the training yard. So, of course, this means he ends up feeling dreadfully restless. He is thankful for the rare privilege of getting to spend extensive time in the city’s vast library, but misses his sword in his hand. For the first week, he's barely allowed a brisk walk around the grounds. 

One day when he is feeling particularly restless, he decides to venture off into the city—after swearing to his commander and the nurses in the infirmary that he will be careful—to go visit Phichit. He goes to the theatre where Phichit dances most nights and watches as Phichit dazzles the audience with his easy charm. He’s a joy to watch. Watching him makes a part of Yuuri miss the days when he would be dancing by Phichit’s side, back before they relocated to the city and Yuuri took a position in the royal guard. He loves his job now, but he also loves dancing. He doesn’t think about how much he misses it most days, but seeing Phichit in action gives him a rush of nostalgia. 

When Phichit finishes for the night, he finds Yuuri and hugs him so tight that he lifts Yuuri off the floor—forgetting once again to be mindful of Yuuri’s shoulder. Keeping with typical Phichit behaviour, he tells everyone who so much as looks in their direction that Yuuri is responsible for singlehandedly saving the Prince from an assailant creeping through the palace in the night with the intent of murdering Prince Nikiforov in his bed. 

Yuuri spends the evening stammering out explanations (the phrases “no, it wasn’t singlehanded, I only did my part to help” and “it is not a huge deal Phichit, please” are his mantra for the evening) and waving away the awe and admiration it earns him. The news of the attack had already spread through the city, seeing as the royal council had decided that being open with the public regarding the situation was the best course of action, but unsurprisingly, many people are skeptical about Yuuri’s involvement in stopping the attack. He’s used to this; he doesn’t look much like a fighter, he’s well aware of this. He’s too soft, his face not suited for an intimidating scowl, his body deceptively slender. He’s never been able to gain bulky muscle, so in his uniform it is hard to tell that underneath his clothing, he is leanly muscled, his body hardened from gruelling hours spent in the training ring. 

He’s not overly concerned with strangers doubting his involvement in the attack, but Phichit certainly is. Whenever Phichit’s bragging on his behalf is met with skepticism, he grabs Yuuri and point to the insignia on his jacket, the Zaschita symbol that signifies he is a part of the royal guard. 

Of course, that is not enough to convince everyone, so Yuuri ends up with his jacket and shirt pushed aside to show the bandages on his still healing shoulder, while Phichit proudly declares “My best friend is a hero!” to anyone who will listen. Phichit is sweet and Yuuri indulges him, because he’s had a few glasses of wine, and he appreciates Phichit’s enthusiasm and pride. He’s not sure he deserves all the fuss, but he accepts it as gracefully and gratefully as he can. 

He goes home that night arm and arm with Phichit, belly full of laughter and drink. He sleeps in Phichit’s room in the little place he rents in the city, both of them curled up on his small bed. They talk ‘til their voices grow slow with sleep and liquor and they drift off. 

Yuuri’s night in the city with Phichit alleviates his restlessness a bit, but doesn’t get rid of it completely. So, he’s beyond relieved that not long after that, he gets clearance to do light exercise as long as he doesn’t aggravate his sword arm. He’s in the ring with his practice sword in hand an hour later. 

He gets a few enthusiastic greetings when he arrives in the yard. He’s spoken to them all in passing—they all live together in the barracks, after all—so it’s not like they’re seeing him for the first time since the incident, but they’re all pleased to see him back on his feet with his sword in hand. Even fellow guards who have never spoken to Yuuri before give him a courteous nod or salute. 

Yuuri supposes that’s what happens when you happen to be there the night when the Prince is saved from an attack. It’s thrilling, and it’s given him just a little bit of recognition amongst the other guards. He doesn’t think it will last, so he doesn’t bother to correct them and tell them that he hardly did anything, was just there to do his job and thankfully didn’t mess it up. It’s what should be expected of him. He doesn’t say anything, even though the urge pulses heady and tempting in his chest.  

It's no surprise when Mila is the first one to approach him for hand to hand. 

“Let's hope you haven't gotten rusty,” she says, goading Yuuri with her good-natured smirk and that familiar challenging glint in her eyes. 

Yuuri happily takes the bait. He discards his shirt, knowing he’ll get hot quickly, and gives Mila a look that is both an invitation and an acceptance of her challenge. Mila is one of the best in the entire guard and a particular favourite of Yuuri's to practice with. She always matches his advances and gives back double, often knocking Yuuri off his feet, much to her absolute delight. 

After they’ve fallen into matching starting stances and lunged at each other, Yuuri quickly finds that he's clumsier than usual—he's stiff from inactivity and he's only able to use his sword with his left hand. Even so, he bests her one out of three times, earning him an impressed look.

“I stand corrected.” She winks, and Yuuri finds himself grinning back at her. It feels  _ good _ to be back.

He loses himself in the practice after that, letting his reflexes take over and guide him through every duck and parry, relishing the familiar stretch of his muscles as he lunges at Mila with practiced attacks. 

Yuuri is so lost in the fight that he barely processes the fact that, after Mila’s second win, she's stopped and is staring away from Yuuri, off into the distance with her mouth gaping in surprise.

“Well, fuck,” Mila breathes, her eyes wide with a kind of reverent awe. Panting, Yuuri lets his arm drop to his side and turns to follow Mila’s gaze. 

Then, promptly, he inhales a sharp breath.

For the second time, Yuuri finds himself struck still with surprise at the sight of Prince Nikiforov in front of him.

“ _ Kuso _ ,” Yuuri murmurs under his breath. 

The Prince looks different like this, with the midday sun setting his silver hair aglow around his face. Instead of the tired, concerned frown he’d worn on the night they met the first time, his face is bright and open, an absentminded smile painted on his lips. He’s sitting on the fence that rings the peripheral of the training yard, with his legs through the top and bottom horizontal slabs of wood, his forearms resting on the top of the fence. He’s dressed in a simple, loose fitting outfit: pale blue fabric that looks light and suited to the warm day, the neckline and hem around his wrists and the bottom of his skirts adorned with intricate gold embroidery. The gold thread is the only obvious indication of wealth besides the simple circlet that he wears around his forehead; he wears no other jewelry. The outfit doesn't scream royalty, but he looks more like a prince than the last time Yuuri saw him, when he’d been dressed in a nightgown and nightshirt, about to crawl into bed. 

It takes Yuuri a moment to realize that the Prince’s gaze is fixed on him.

When their gazes meet, the Prince sits up straighter and absolutely beams. He lifts a hand and waves enthusiastically, as if he is gesturing for Yuuri to come to him. “Yuuri Katsuki!”

Yuuri startles at the sound of his name. Well, if there had been any doubt who Prince Nikiforov was looking at so intently, there isn’t any more. At the sound of his name in the cheery voice, he feels the eyes of several other guards turn to him, boring into his back.

Obligingly, he shakily makes his way over to the Prince, feeling like his legs have been detached from his body. 

“You’ve recovered well,” the Prince says as Yuuri approaches. His eyes are bright and appreciative, his mouth curved into a wide smile. “You move so beautifully even though you’re still injured.”

“Th-Thank you, your Highness,” Yuuri says, trying his hardest not to mumble and speak clearly, even though every part of him wanted to shrink back and withdraw into himself, like a turtle drawing his head back into his shell. “I’m only able to do simple moves for now.”

“I imagine so,” the Prince says knowingly. He places a finger over his mouth thoughtfully, keeping his eyes unrelentingly fixed on Yuuri’s. “And yet, you do them very well.”

This time, Yuuri knows he mumbles when he thanks the Prince, but he hopes that he makes up for it by tipping his head forward into a polite bow. 

When he looks up, Prince Nikiforov’s eyes are sparkling. “So polite!” he says, sounding delighted. “I tried to come visit you while you were in the infirmary,” he continues casually, like he’s discussing the weather, not telling Yuuri that the darling crown prince had attempted to visit his bedside as he recovered from a mere shoulder wound. “They wouldn’t let me through the doors.”

“Wouldn’t let you?” Yuuri asks, like that’s the most puzzling part of what the Prince had just said. He doesn’t voice his confusion at the concept of Prince Nikiforov coming to visit him in the infirmary. That seems like territory far too complex for him to attempt to navigate at the moment. 

“Well,” the Prince shrugs with a little laugh, “I suppose could have commanded them to, but they were so concerned that I would fall ill the second I stepped through the doors. They seemed so distraught that I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond to that. That is rather considerate of the Prince, seeing as he could ask anyone in the palace to do  _ anything _ and have it done with no questions asked.

Prince Nikiforov then inclines his head in Yuuri’s direction, that pretty smile flitting across his lips again. “So, I’m visiting you now!” he says brightly. 

Yuuri is fairly certain that he can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest. He lowers his eyes and bows his head slightly again. “I… the gesture is appreciated, your Highness, but entirely unnecessary, I assure you.” Yuuri is powerless to hide the shakiness of his voice. He hopes that the Prince will pass it off as exertion from training, not the nervousness that he can feel quaking in his bones. Yuuri figures the Prince is probably used to people being nervous around him, but even so, he doesn’t want to look weak in front of the Prince.

“Nonsense!” The Prince waves off Yuuri’s self deprecation with an unconcerned flick of his wrist. When Yuuri looks up, he’s still smiling brightly. “Besides, I wanted to.”

Yuuri absolutely does not know how to respond to that.

Luckily, Prince Nikiforov speaks again before he is forced to stumble through a response. He sobers slightly, his grin falling and leaving behind a more serious expression.

“I also came to discuss the matter of interrogating the attackers from that night,” he says. “My commander is eager to get the interrogation underway as soon as possible.”

“They haven’t already been questioned?” Yuuri frowns a little. He’s surprised. He’d thought the surviving intruders would have been interrogated right after the incident. Weeks have passed since then.

“One of them has been,” the Prince answers. “The other only just woke up yesterday.”

“Woke up?” Yuuri asks. Yet another question. He thinks that  _ everything _ he’s said since the Prince started speaking to him has been a question, and even though the Prince has answered them all succinctly, he is still no less confused. It feels like he’s missing out on half of this conversation. Or, perhaps, the Prince has mistaken him for someone else, and he’s now speaking with Yuuri about something he has no business hearing.

“It turns out that if you break a vase on someone’s skull and they then hit their head on a stone floor, it takes them a little while to wake up,” the Prince explains, looking a little sheepish. “For a while, they weren’t sure that he would wake up at all.”

Yuuri might be imagining it, but he thinks that the Prince sounds a little bit relieved, almost like he’d been worried about the possibility of the man not waking up. Yuuri wants to tell him that there’s no need, the man would’ve gladly killed the Prince himself with absolutely no remorse if he’d been able to. If Yuuri hadn’t stopped him.

But Yuuri thinks about how the notoriously sheltered young Prince likely had never seen violence like that up close before, and he certainly wasn’t in the habit of taking lives. Of course, the Prince had been concerned. He doesn’t seem the type to rejoice in blood being spilt.

“Anyway,” the Prince continues, leaning against the fence and tilting his head to look Yuuri full in the face. “I also wanted to come tell you that I want you to be there when we question him.”

Yuuri blinks owlishly. “Me?” he inquires after a long moment, his voice incredulous.

The Prince nods. “Yes, you.”

“Why?” Yuuri asks, baffled.

The Prince’s brows raise. “Why not?” he counters. 

“Well.” Yuuri pauses, trying to gather his thoughts so that he doesn’t respond with just  _ I’m not qualified to be there. _ Surely Prince Nikiforov is well aware of his status, he needn’t remind him.

“He knows I’m injured,” Yuuri points out, finally. “My presence will mean that there’s a guard present who can’t properly contain him. He’ll be aware of that.”

“True,” the Prince allows, “but there will be other guards there, have no fear, Yuuri. I am hoping that with both you and I present in the room, he will be more inclined to talk.” His lips twist wryly. “I’d say it’s much more difficult to try and justify yourself when you are speaking to two people that you tried to kill.”

This surprises Yuuri into speaking without thinking, the words rushing forth with no chance of him stopping them. “Your Highness, it wouldn’t be wise to attend an interrogation with a man who attempted to kill you.”

Prince Nikiforov quirks a brow at the small outburst and through his surprise, Yuuri immediately remembers his place. He can feel his cheeks warm beneath the Prince’s gaze.

“I-I mean—“

A shake of the Prince’s head stills his tongue. “It’s all right,” Prince Nikiforov says and, miraculously, he smiles at Yuuri. He smiles a lot, Yuuri is starting to notice. “I appreciate your concern, Yuuri. That is also what Chris said when I told him.” He sighs. 

After a moment of searching his brain to place the name, Yuuri assumes that the Prince is referring to his most trusted commander, Christophe, with whom everyone knows he’s quite close. Close enough to scold the Prince freely when he intends to do something foolhardy, such as being present in the room during an interrogation of a man who tried to kill him. 

Yuuri doesn’t ask for clarification. He’s resolved to hold his tongue as much as possible for the remainder of this conversation.

“I will send for you when we are about to begin the interrogation,” the Prince says with finality, swinging his legs so he can dismount from his perch on the fence. His voice leaves no room for further conversation. “I will see you soon, Yuuri Katsuki.”

The Prince turns, his hair fluttering out in silver wave behind him. Yuuri finds himself rooted to the spot where he stands, unable to tear his eyes away from Prince Nikiforov’s back as he walks away. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _Kuso_ trans: くそ = “shit”]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, bitches. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please note that there is a trigger warning for this chapter. Please see the end notes for an explanation. It begins and ends with the ******** in this chapter, so you may skip it if you wish. **

General Yakov is unarguably a terrifying man.

As the lead commander of the Prince’s military regiment and palace guard, he ought to be. He is stout, his face is lined with age, his hairline has receded and he’s not as agile as Yuuri imagines he once was, yet he still manages to strike fear into anyone who has the pleasure of meeting him. His presence is one that cannot be ignored; he’s loud and stern when he speaks, his glower steady on any of his targets. The newer guards still quake in their boots when Yakov raises his voice at them, Yuuri included.

That being said, Yakov is not a cruel man in the slightest; the Nikiforovs don’t tolerate cruelty from what Yuuri has seen since he has been in the country. At least, they attempt to portray themselves as non-violent. Yakov is, however, gruff as a default setting and quite prone to raising his voice when someone does something ridiculous. Surprisingly, even the Prince is not immune to his reprimands.

Even so, Yuuri is surprised to find that the rough-around-the-edges General is Prince Nikiforov’s most trusted advisor. In a surprising move from the seemingly reckless and impulsive man, the Prince had requested rather firmly that Yakov be there for the entire duration of the interrogation, and didn’t bat an eye when Yakov sees the four guards stationed in the room and demanded that two more be sent for. The small ground level room is cold and silent as Yakov pulls the young Prince aside and speaks quietly with him in a gruff voice. Yuuri can’t help but stare as the Prince’s face turns serious and thoughtful as he listens attentively as Yakov speaks. He stays silent as Yakov speaks, nodding every once in a while when the one-sided conversation deemed fit.

The charming and bright prince returns once again when Prince Nikiforov reaches up and pats Yakov’s shoulder, giving him a sunny smile. “Have no fear,” he says, “You worry too much. I have all of my big, strong guards to take care of me, Yakov.”

With that, he turns his head to where Yuuri stands on the other side of the room and winks. Yuuri’s knees go weak and he nearly falls to the floor. Not for the first time, Yuuri wonders if the Prince knows that his behaviour could so easily be misinterpreted as flirting. He's a friendly man, yes, but seeing as flirting with a guard would be considered more than inappropriate to most of the court, Yuuri thinks he ought to be more careful. Surely he doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about his intentions towards Yuuri.

That being said, Yuuri truly has no idea _what_ the Prince’s motive is. Perhaps he's simply a friendly person who behaves this way with everyone. Maybe Yuuri is misunderstanding something. However, no matter the reason, if he’s going to keep insisting that Yuuri attend to him, Yuuri probably isn’t going to survive long. He’s just not used to someone like the Prince paying attention to him at all—well, there’s no one quite like the Prince, but even so. Yuuri isn’t sure what to make of this. He’s not even sure what on earth he’s doing here.

“Stop teasing your guards,” Yakov says gruffly, “be serious, Vitya.”

Yuuri’s head snaps up at the sound of the diminutive on the general’s tongue. The familiarity of the word seems unnatural and foreign in such a situation; from the grammar drills he’d done in classes, he’s well aware that such diminutives are used only between people who are on familiar terms with each other. He braces himself, looks frantically to the Prince, waiting for the berating Yakov is certainly about to get at any moment. General or not, one simply does not refer to the Prince so casually.

To Yuuri’s absolute shock, the Prince hardly reacts. He lets out an amused huff of laughter, turns on his heel quickly, his hair fanning out behind him at the movement. He makes his way over to a chair that has been set aside for him, a (relatively) safe distance away from the chair where the criminal will soon sit. The thought of a murderous criminal sitting mere yards away from the Crown Prince is unsettling, but Yuuri knows he has no say in the matter.

“If you get any closer than this,” Yakov is saying now, to the chagrined Prince, “I will move you away myself.”

“Stop worrying,” the Prince says brightly, sounding utterly unconcerned, not even addressing the underlying threat in Yakov’s words. “I’m surrounded by you and my best guards, I couldn’t be safer.”

Yakov just grunts. Clearly, he’s still unhappy with the situation and Yuuri doesn’t quite blame him.

Earlier, confusion and curiosity had eaten at Yuuri until he caved, and he’d asked Yakov how the Queen felt about her son meeting with a hardened criminal who had tried to kill him. Yakov had turned a disapproving gaze on Yuuri that made him wither where he stood. “It’s not for either of us to question the Queen’s decisions,” Yakov responded in a voice that clearly indicated that Yuuri had overstepped. However, before Yuuri had a chance to apologize, Yakov had continued. “But I do know,” he’d said, “that the Queen is of the opinion that a Prince should face his enemies head on, instead of behind walls.”

An admirable sentiment, to be sure. Even so, the idea of the darling Prince of Pobeda being so close to someone who recently attempted to murder him is an unpleasant thought.

He hardly even flinches when the door shudders open with the sound of clanking metal. Yuuri knows this because his gaze lingers on the Prince for a moment to gauge his reaction. His blue eyes lift from where he was examining a stray thread on his cloak. He’s still relaxed, his reaction unhurried.

Yuuri tears his attention away just as two more guards walk into the room, each of them with a hand on an elbow of the man who walks between them. Instinctively, Yuuri’s hand shifts on his hip, moving closer to the sword at his hip. The man is pale faced, the corners of his mouth downturned in an unpleasant grimace, his eyes coldly staring ahead, chin tipped up in disdain. His head has been shaved, likely in order to stitch up the nasty, still-healing wound on the back of his scalp.

The Prince watches with an unreadable expression as the man is seated in his designated chair, his wrists chained to the armrests of the metal chair. Yuuri is alert and _ready;_ he’s waiting for the slightest movement from the man to set him off, ready to defend the Prince at the drop of a hat.

He does not move. He simply sits there, staring ahead with the same blank expression.

After an excruciatingly long few moments of silence, Yakov clears his throat and steps forward.

“General Yakov,” the Prince says before Yakov has a chance to speak. “May I have the first words?”

Yakov halts with his mouth half open, and it snaps shut as a glower settles over his features.

“Surely if you have the courage to try to murder me in my own home, then you must be able to face me about it,” the Prince says matter-of-factly, like he’s musing about what horse he’ll take to go picnicking that afternoon. Yuuri is well aware that he’s staring wide eyed, but he can’t seem to find it in himself to stop.

Yakov’s jaw clenches, but he gives the Prince a nod.

Prince Nikiforov lounges in his chair like he’s in his own personal suite enjoying a good book, hair spilling over the armrests, falling downwards like moonbeams yearning to strike the ground. He looks relaxed and comfortable—not like he’s sitting in front of a criminal. A criminal who tried to kill him.

“Firstly, what should I call you?”

Silence.

“I’ve been told you refuse to give us your name,” the Prince continues in that cold, offhand manner, “so I’ll have to give you one if we’re going to have a conversation. I like Ivan, personally. What do you think?”

Silence.

“Well, that’s decided then!” the Prince claps his hands together, as if the sharp movement seals the decision. The sound is too loud and jarring in the still, quiet room. One of the guards flinches at the sound. Yuuri does as well. Yakov and Ivan do not.

“Now,” the Prince says, his voice far too bright and cheerful for the dim room. “I just have one question for you.”

Ivan doesn’t even acknowledge that the Prince is speaking to him; he continues to stare blank faced ahead, jaw clenched tight. Yuuri’s skin crawls with irritation.

The Prince leans forward a little, keeping the man fixed in his unwavering gaze. “My first question is quite simple,” he says, tilting his head to peer at the man. “How do you like our palace?”

Yuuri blinks. That’s not what he was expecting the Prince to ask.

Yet again, Ivan does not react.  

“It’s quite old, actually,” the Prince continues. “My great grandmother several generations back—seven, to be exact—built the main structure. Well, not herself, of course. Though she personally had it designed and oversaw the construction.”

The Prince lounges deeper in his chair. “It wasn’t quite so large back then, you know,” the Prince explains. “It was much smaller. Meant to be economical and functional… she thought of the palace as a place for governance, not as a place of needless luxury. Obviously, that is not the palace we know today. Her great-great grandson Dimitri was quite a different man when he came to rule. He thought such a utilitarian palace wasn’t nearly fit for a tsar such as himself. So naturally, he had builders expand the palace to more than triple the size of the original structure. It took nearly thirty years to complete.

“It was quite the scandal, actually. He spent far too much money on this needlessly extravagant palace and mostly everyone—except for those who lived here and reaped the benefits of such a lavish lifestyle, of course—were not happy at all with his choices. Of course, it’s beautiful, don’t you think? I can’t say that I agree with his desire for needless extravagance at the cost of his subjects, but I will admit to enjoying a bit of luxury myself.”

Yuuri’s eyes slip away from Ivan’s face for a fraction of a moment to find Yakov’s face, and he doesn’t need to know the man well to see the thinly veiled frustration that is simmering just below his stony, controlled expression. Yuuri’s reaction on the other hand is of pure and unadulterated confusion. He has no idea where the Prince is going with this little history lesson.

“Sorry, am I boring everyone? I’ll get to the point.” the Prince leans back in his chair. “What I’m trying to say is that because of all the rebuilding the palace has undergone, bits of the old architecture still remain. Much of it isn’t used anymore, some of it is hidden, some of it is inaccessible. Almost no one is aware of the fact that when the palace was expanded, they demolished an entire wing. The only thing left of that wing is the catacombs. Is that how you and your friends got into the palace, Ivan?”

“Your highness, it is not wise to reveal such information to a _prisoner—_ ”

“No need to worry Yakov, he’s not going to be leaving our company any time soon,” the Prince assures the General with a casual wave of his hand. “Also, I already know that’s how they got in. I had the tunnels searched the night after the attack. My people found all of their supplies down there. The tunnels have since been sealed off.”

It’s miniscule and it would be easy to miss if he weren’t paying attention (which Yuuri is); Ivan’s eyes narrow slightly and the corner of his mouth twitches downwards as if in displeasure. Just from that alone, Yuuri thinks that the Prince has managed to get inside of his head.

Of course, Ivan isn’t cracked that easily. He’s a tough man. Certainly he won’t succumb as a result of a history lesson.

Yet, Yuuri notices his cheek twitch, evidence of a clenched jaw and carefully contained rage.  

“You have a pretty little mouth,” Ivan snarls.

Everyone in the room stiffens at the first sound of his gravelly, spiteful voice. The hair stands up a little at the back of Yuuri’s neck.

The Prince manages to seem wholly unaffected. “Oh?” he says carefully. “You think so, Ivan?”

“Pretty words out of a pretty mouth,” he continues, vitriol imbued in every word. “It’ll be prettier when it’s shut up for good.”

Yuuri wants to run him through. The Prince simply tips his head slightly to one side.

“That’s not very nice, Ivan,” the Prince says, as if he’s reprimanding a child for calling their friend an unkind name in a schoolyard. Not speaking to a man who is speaking murderous treason.

“There will be more,” Ivan says, all but spitting the words out in the Prince’s face.“There will be more and you will succumb. We won’t stop until we’ve taken back the throne.”

The Prince arches a brow. “That sounds exciting,” he says. His smile is brittle when it appears. “Unfortunately, I have the best people in the kingdom protecting me, and I’m not scared of you.”

Ivan lets out an ugly laugh. “I’m not your problem anymore,” he snarls, twisting his wrists and making the chains clank pointedly. “There are others.”

“And I am not afraid of them either.” The Prince says this with utter surety, so much that Yuuri almost believes him. Surely, he must be terrified to know that there is a league of assassins out there who wish to kill him.

If he is scared, he doesn’t show it. Yuuri searches his face for any indication of fear, but finds none.

Ivan snarls, shifting in his seat again rather violently, then makes an unpleasant hacking sound before spitting in the Prince’s direction. The wad of wetness splats to the floor just next to his boot.

The Prince does not flinch, but Yuuri cannot say the same for himself. Unthinkingly, Yuuri steps forward so quickly that he would have stumbled were he not so sure-footed. His eyes are fixed on Ivan as he strides forward, his protector instincts pulling his feet across the floor to stand between the seething, hateful man and the Prince.

Yuuri’s hand is steady on the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t even remember drawing it. “You will not disrespect the Prince again,” he says roughly, his voice taut with thinly coiled anger at the fact that Ivan would dare to treat the Prince in such a way, especially when the Prince has been nothing but benevolent and fair to the prisoner, despite the fact that Ivan attempted to take the Prince’s life in cold blood.

“Katsuki,” the Prince says, his voice quiet and controlled. “Stand down. He won’t hurt me.”

“He won’t hurt you because Katsuki is standing between you two,” Yakov growls.

“Oh, but this is no way to have a conversation!” the Prince says. “I can’t even see his face.”

“Vitya,” Yakov says, his voice laced with disapproval.

“General,” the Prince says firmly, his voice steady and clearly leaving no room for argument. “Katsuki, thank you for your alertness, but you may step aside now.”

A tense moment passes in silence, as Yuuri’s feet stubbornly refuse to move. This is a bad, bad idea. His job is to keep the Prince safe and letting a murderous criminal this close to him is the opposite of everything he’s been trained to do.

But he also has an obligation to listen to His Highness. He glances over to General Yakov, who looks deeply displeased with the situation—his mouth is pressed in a tight line and his brow is furrowed with a deeper frown than usual, but he does give Yuuri a slight nod. Still glaring at Ivan, he reluctantly forces himself to step aside. Even so, he does not sheathe his sword. He’s not sure he would obey if he were asked to.

“Thank you, Katsuki,” the Prince says, but he does not look over at him as he speaks. His eyes are fixed solely on Ivan.

Yuuri turns his attention to him as well, hand flexing instinctively on the hilt of his sword.

“Well,” he says, “I think you’ve made my guards jumpy enough for one day. It was lovely speaking with you!” the Prince exclaims with all the vigor of someone who’s just spent an afternoon in the company of someone they enjoy. Anyone unaware of the situation might believe at a glance that that was the case. “However, I’m afraid that we won’t be doing it again, so I do hope you savoured it as much as I did.”

He gives a nod to the two guards who brought Ivan into the room step forward once again, both of them wrapping their hands around one of his elbows and tugging him to his feet.

“No need to jostle him,” the Prince says when Ivan stumbles a bit as he stands.

“Yes, your Highness,” one of the guards mumbles, and the Prince nods in acknowledgement.

Thankfully, when Yakov says, “Vitya, don’t stand so close,” the Prince dutifully steps aside and stands out of the way.

What happens next is too absurd, too unprecedented for any of them to properly react. Perhaps that is what Ivan was counting on; he hadn’t displayed any behaviour that would make them suspect this, and surely that was intentional on his part.

**************

Whatever the reason, no one is ready when Ivan stomps on one of the guard’s feet and throws an elbow into her stomach so quickly that she cannot help but loosen her hold on his arm. In the split second where she struggles to regain her balance, Ivan expertly twists out of the other guard’s grasp, knocking him back a few steps. There’s a shout, a command shouted—“Katsuki, the Prince!”—and Yuuri immediately darts over to the Prince, putting himself between him and the prisoner once again with his feet planted and his blade gripped tight in his hand. The Prince makes a surprised sound of alarm that sends a strange shiver up Yuuri’s spine.

The urgency with which he launched himself in front of the Prince proves unnecessary immediately. Chains clanking, feet scuffing across the stone floor, Ivan goes in the opposite direction and makes a beeline for the nearest window.

The Prince lets out a small cry behind Yuuri when Ivan vaults out the window in one leap, immediately disappearing from view.

There is startled shouting erupting all around him and Yuuri’s ears are ringing as he stands there in shock. He barely registers that the Prince had reached out and wrapped his fingers around his forearm, his hand clenched so tight that it feels like he’s going to leave marks. Dazedly, Yuuri watches the remaining people in the room erupt into chaos.

“Popov, Nikolaev, Orlov, go down there immediately and retrieve the prisoner. Katsuki, you stay with the Prince,” Yakov commands.

Yuuri doesn’t dare disobey, and he doesn’t want to. Staying with the Prince while the room empties as the other guards rush to the door hastily, it feels like the most productive place for him to be. His mother always told him he had a protective instinct; there was a time his sister Mari had been getting bullied in the schoolyard, and the bullies had no idea what to do when a tiny, black haired little boy in eyeglasses rushed over with a flushed face and stubborn determination to yell at them. Rather than being intimidated, Yuuri knows now they’d just been too confused to deal with it.

Mari had scolded him after, saying that it was her job to protect _him._

Well, now it’s Yuuri’s job to protect the Prince.

And as he snaps back to reality, he realizes that the Prince is still clinging urgently to his arm.

He turns to the Prince then, but only enough to still be able to keep an eye on the door. “Ah,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s all right, your Highness.”

The Prince is staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. It’s a completely different look from the one he wore earlier; all charming and collected. He looks… younger. He looks scared.

The Prince turns his gaze away from Yuuri to the window. “How high is that window?” he asks hoarsely.

Yuuri doesn’t dare mention that the Prince is still digging his talons into his arm. “Well. A few stories, I think,” Yuuri says truthfully.

The Prince’s mouth twists. “Could he survive it?”

Yuuri holds back a grimace. “Possibly,” he says, then quickly, “but you have nothing to worry about, your Highness, we won’t let him come for you again.”

The Prince turns back to Yuuri, an unreadable expression on his face. “I know,” he says quietly. “I don’t want him to die.”

Yuuri blinks in surprise.

He’s about to open his mouth to say who-knows-what, when heavy footsteps ring out in the doorway and Yakov blusters in again.

“Vitya, we agreed that you would only be present for the interrogation,” Yakov says. Rather than angry or terrifying, he just looks tired. He sounds tired. “You weren’t supposed to speak to the prisoner.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” the Prince asks. It’s not a challenge; he sounds like he genuinely wants to know. As if, perhaps, it had been impulsive. Perhaps he had expected someone to stop him.

Yakov grunts. “It wouldn’t do to disagree on that in front of the prisoner,” he says. “It would have made you look weak. They can’t think that you are weak.”

The Prince releases Yuuri’s aching arm and steps towards Yakov. Yuuri is surprised once again to see that the Prince leans forward then and places a hand on Yakov’s forearm. Even more surprising, Yakov doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the physical contact.

“I’m not weak,” the Prince says. “You know I’m not.”

Yakov sighs. “It was unwise to talk about the catacombs.”

“He’s our prisoner,” the Prince says. “How was he going to tell anyone?”

“He was not the only person in the room, Vitya.” Yakov’s voice is becoming more and more frustrated by the minute.

The Prince’s brows furrow. “My guards would never betray me,” he says vehemently, with all the assurance of a man who trusts with his entire heart.

Yakov opens his mouth to say something when one of the guards Yakov sent down returns. She stops, breathless in the doorway. “General,” she says. She stands there, clearly waiting for Yakov to step aside to speak with her privately.

“Well,” Yakov says gruffly. “Out with it.”

Nervously, Daniela flicks her eyes towards the Prince, hesitating for a moment. Glancing back to Yakov, she gives a short, sharp shake of her head, as if she cannot bring herself to say the words out loud in front of the Prince.

Yuuri can’t help but steal a glance in the Prince’s direction. His already fair skin looks unpleasantly pale. His mouth is pressed together in a thin line and his eyes are distant and unfocused. Yuuri hesitates to speak to him for fear of intruding on his thoughts.

*************

“Katsuki,” Yakov says, immediately stealing his attention away from the Prince’s wan expression. “Escort the Prince back to his chambers.”

The Prince smiles at Yuuri; it’s a dim imitation of the smile he’s seen on his face before, but he makes a valiant effort. Yuuri admires him for it.

“Shall we?” the Prince asks. Then, as if it were a normal thing to do, the Prince holds one arm out towards Yuuri, bending it at the elbow in an invitation.

Yuuri freezes and blinks, staring blankly at the Prince’s arm. A long moment of silence follows in which Yuuri’s brain tries to process what the Prince is asking of him.

“Y-Your Highness, I cannot—“ Yuuri cuts himself off. How is he supposed to tell the crown Prince how utterly inappropriate it would be for the two of them to walk arm and arm through the palace?

Before he figures out how to voice his protest, realization passes over the Prince’s face as he quickly drops his arm. “Oh,” he says softly. The smile he gives Yuuri this time is even more forced than the last, and to Yuuri’s absolute dismay his cheeks are now stained with a pink flush.

“My apologies, Katsuki.”

“No, no!” Yuuri says, his voice rising frantically. “Your Highness, you didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

The Prince finds a remnant of his smile and shakes his head. “Katsuki. Please, I apologize, that was inappropriate of me.”

Yuuri feels guilt gnawing from the inside of his belly, but he accepts the Prince’s apology with a slight bow of his head. “Your Highness,” he says.

He lets the Prince take the lead. He follows a few steps behind as they leave the room and go out in the hallway, making their way in the direction of the Prince’s wing of the palace.

Yuuri respectfully keeps quiet as they walk, until the Prince speaks again.

“You are very brave,” the Prince says. “You didn’t hesitate for a moment to protect me.”

“It was nothing, your highness,” Yuuri replies quickly. He feels that he doesn’t deserve the praise. He might have been quicker if he hadn’t been so busy staring at the Prince so intently. “The man was in chains, after all.”

The Prince turns a very tired-looking smile on Yuuri. “Don’t forget that I’ve seen you fight, Katsuki. I know what you’re capable of.”

Yuuri fights against the flush he feels staining his cheeks at the compliment. He hopes that the hallway is dim enough that the Prince won’t notice. “Yes, your highness.”

The Prince turns away then, staring straight ahead as he walks. “It doesn’t sound like you believe me,” he muses.  

Yuuri can’t help but wonder why this is what the Prince is choosing to focus on when he’s only just seen such a devastating event.

“How did you know about the tunnels, your highness?” Yuuri blurts out unthinkingly. The instant the words release themselves into the air, he immediately wants to snatch them back. Who is he to be so forward?

He does not have a chance to backtrack; the Prince gives him a quizzical look that stills his tongue in his mouth. “This is my home,” the Prince explains. “And I did attend my lessons as a child.”

“Ah,” Yuuri chokes out. “I apologize, I did not mean to offend—“

The Prince waves a hand. “Please, don’t,” he says loftily. Yuuri wonders if the Prince truly believes he is hiding the ragged tiredness in his voice. “I know my reputation, Katsuki. I don’t blame you for being confused.”

“I’m not questioning you,” Yuuri replies feebly. “Your Highness.”

“Please, question me,” the Prince says. “I like questions.”

Yuuri stays silent.

“Ask me another question, Katsuki.”

“A… sorry, your highness?”

“I can practically hear your mind working over there, Katsuki. You’re confused. Ask me questions.”

“About what, your highness?”

“About what just happened.”

Yuuri hesitates for a long moment, completely unsure what to do. Then, hesitantly, he asks; “Should you have said all of that while we were in the room?”

The Prince gives him a sidelong look. “I trusted everyone in that room.”

Yuuri can’t help but think that the Prince shouldn’t trust any of them so easily. Even Yuuri himself. Yuuri knows that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt the Prince ever, but surely the Prince should be slightly more cautious in making sure that Yuuri is worthy of his trust before giving him access to such sensitive information? The fact that he had even been in the room at all was… ill advised, Yuuri thinks.

But who is he to say so? Judging just from that interrogation, there’s more to the Prince than Yuuri had initially thought. He’s willing to accept that he could be wrong again.

They’re silent for the rest of the walk. Yuuri has the impression that it is unlike the Prince to be so quiet, so he does not attempt to speak again. If the Prince would like to speak, he will.

“Thank you, Katsuki,” the Prince says when they reach the grand double doors to his suite. He turns to Yuuri with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Yuuri bows his head. “I am honoured to be of service to you, your Highness.”

The Prince huffs, a quiet sound that is almost amused. He reaches out with one hand and squeezes Yuuri’s forearm for a fraction of a second. Yuuri hopes the Prince doesn’t hear the surprised sound that erupts in his throat. “Please,” the Prince says, “you can just say ‘you’re welcome’.”

Yuuri’s throat feels dry. His mouth gapes open for a moment. “I—you are welcome, your Highness,” he says haltingly, like the words aren’t meant to be coming from him.

The smile pushes a little bit more at the corners of the Prince’s mouth. “Good,” he says quietly.

He releases Yuuri’s arm, and turns away. The two guards standing at his doors open them, giving Yuuri a small peek at the grandeur that lies within.

Yuuri does not pay attention. He’s too busy watching the Prince fade away in a blur of silver hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******* The trigger warning is for death by suicide of a minor character. The event is described, but no graphic details are given whatsoever.

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at regular updates, but my aim will always be to update every 2-3 weeks when I can. 
> 
> Huge thank you to: my betas [@AngelycDevil](https://twitter.com/AngelycDevil) and [@adjitay](https://twitter.com/adjitay) who have been endlessly helpful; as well as [@deerna](https://twitter.com/somewhatclear), [@princessharumi_](https://twitter.com/princessharumi_), and [@GiselleRocks](https://twitter.com/GiselleRocks) who have helped me infinitely with this AU by encouraging me, drawing art for the au (!!!!) and brainstorming with me; and finally, of course _everyone else_ who has taken interest in the AU and supported me! I haven't taken anything like this on for a very long time and I've grown very attached to the AU, so everyone's help is super appreciated. I just hope I can pull it off! I'm going to try my best. 
> 
> Since this is a WIP, it is subject to small edits and changes before its completion, even after chapters have been posted. If anything noteworthy gets changed, I'll be sure to let you know (anything pertaining to the plot, added/deleted sections, etc). I'll try to keep that at a minimum but it happens! 
> 
> [Here's a twitter moment compiling all my threads about the AU if you're interested in seeing my headcanons about it](https://twitter.com/i/moments/861358322158628864). Includes artwork by the wonderful and lovely [@gisellerocks](https://twitter.com/GiselleRocks) and [@singing_swan](https://twitter.com/singing_swan)!
> 
> Come join me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/pensvsswords) or [tumblr](http://pensversusswords.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
